My shit don’t stink.

I was sitting on the can, minding my own business (taking a big poo), when James decided to be a peeping tom come visit me.

I instinctively regulated my breathing in an attempt to keep my shizzit together and not to freak at him for the invasion of privacy.  Hey – I can’t be responsible for my behaviour immediately before dinnertime.

Teeth clenched and trying to tamp down my adrenaline response, I asked him politely to vacate the bathroom.

He laughed at me, wiggling his butt in my face, completely unaware of how I was visualizing back-handing him out of there.

My 2nd line of defense?  The gross-out factor.

“James, seriously, this is one nasty poo.  You’re totally gonna get smoked out if you stay in here.”

Instead of fleeing as I thought he would, he made a big show of taking as deep a breath as he could manage.

“Ahhhhhhhhh….” he exhaled dramatically.  “No, your poo smells AMAZING, mom!”

He ran straight out of the bathroom to tell his father just how amazing.  (Like flowers, apparently.)

What.

The.

Hell?

Crazy child.

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